


Not Quite Mutual, Not Always Gratifying (Except Sometimes)

by Steals_Thyme (Liodain)



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Coming In Pants, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Kink Meme, M/M, Pre-Roche, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-15
Updated: 2011-04-15
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:44:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liodain/pseuds/Steals_Thyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a kinkmeme prompt: <i>Rorschach is finally comfortable enough to have bare skin touching that doesn't involve a needle and some disinfectant... as long as it stays above the waistband.  I want someone to make him come in his pants without touching anything below the waist.</i></p><p>In other words, unrepentant smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite Mutual, Not Always Gratifying (Except Sometimes)

**Author's Note:**

> Posted on the meme as 'To a Place That's Vast', simply because iTunes happened to kick up Bat for Lashes when I was trying to think of a title.

"Daniel," Rorschach says.

"Mm?" Dan doesn't look up; if he drops this capacitor it'll disappear into the tangle of wires that are the inner workings of Archie's dash, and he's not sure he has another with the right voltage rating. He frowns, touches a bead of solder onto the circuit board.

"Daniel," Rorschach says again, and there's the rustle of drafting paper as he moves Dan's electrical schematic aside.

"Watch you don't tear that," Dan says without bothering to look; he's focused on maneuvering the component into place, careful, careful. "What is it?"

"You don't need to do that," Rorschach says, from behind Dan's left shoulder. His breath curls against the side of Dan's neck. "Not right now."

Dan pauses for a moment, then catches the capacitor up into the palm of his hand. "Oh." He places it down carefully, next the soldering iron, and turns around. "Oh. Yeah, okay."

#

It might be Rorschach doing the coaxing, but it's still a delicate balance they've struck. There's the usual, ostensibly internal fight going on, painted cleanly in his body language as Dan pulls him close. Right now it's only a token struggle to satisfy his own sense of propriety, just checking that his boundaries are still there before he steps over them once again.

It's a familiar ritual, a back-and-forth that's more foreplay than actual foreplay is at this point; he disapproves, Dan reassures, he relents.

Sometimes he even folds the mask up.

Tonight is one of those nights, and Dan can't deny that it's a thrill to see his lips part silently, feel that unshaven jaw gritting against his palm. It's not sexy in itself—he knows it _shouldn't_ be sexy—but it's as much of a response as he ever gets. As far as partners go, Rorschach is grudging with his appreciation.

That was discouraging at first, but then he figured out that it was a matter of recontextualizing: one man's lack of knee-jerk physical violence is another's enthusiastic consent. And since he's already butchering that particular idiom, one man's unbuttoned shirt is another's full frontal nudity. Dan fumbles at Rorschach's vest, strips it open and off, does the same for dress shirt, if a little slower. Stupid tiny fiddly buttons, where the hell does he get these clothes anyway?

These are the rules: Dan's hands strictly above his waist; Rorschach naked from nose to navel and not an inch more. Dan doesn't know if he's trying to maintain some level of modesty or if this is how he justifies it all to himself. Either way, the puritanical measures have started to take on a decidedly filthy bent as far as Dan's concerned. The way the waistband of Rorschach's pinstripes sits against his flat stomach is just short of pornographic, and the less said about the loop of suspenders against his thighs, the better. (Dan's experiments in rudimentary bondage didn't work out; further attempts may constitute masochism on his part.)

The mask? The mask just makes it kinky.

There's a triangle of shadow where it stretches from the bridge of Rorschach's nose to where his cheekbone sharply juts. Dan presses his lips into that space, inhales the tang of latex and tastes the sharp salt of his skin until he's eased away, Rorschach's hands curving chastely around Dan's shoulders.

Dan leads them over to the bunk at the back of the ship in shuffling, stumbling increments. It's never actually been slept on; it's always been commandeered for medical emergencies and... well, this. They both stand at the side of the bed for a moment, Dan awkwardly hesitant because this is when he always wants to drop to his knees and bury his face between Rorschach's legs. (Dan's initial attempt to give him a blow job didn't work out; a black eye happened, rules were made.)

Then Rorschach slouches down onto the standard-issue scratchy wool blanket, glares up at Dan like this is all his fault and would he just get on with it already.

"Don't look at me like that," Dan says. "I could be soldering." He leans over and licks at Rorschach's mouth, just in case he thinks he might be serious.

Rorschach bites back and tears at the zipper of Dan's pants, and all of a sudden Dan is a little tired of this routine. Far be it from him to be ungrateful, but being on the receiving end of a perfunctory hand job every now and then without being allowed to return the favor isn't really working for him any more.

"Wait, wait." He catches Rorschach's hands and holds them still. "How about we do something else," he says.

"This is fine," Rorschach retorts. He lunges forward to make another attempt at Dan's fly. Dan sighs inwardly when he's scooped out of his underwear with the same lack of delicacy as always, then bites his lip and braces one hand against the curved wall. Rorschach still has his gloves on; he's squeezing and pulling just so, and the way he's hunched over, Dan can see all the muscles in his shoulder and back shifting beneath his undershirt.

"Fuh," Dan manages, and grabs Rorschach's shoulder to keep himself upright. Rorschach ignores him in favor of inspecting the mess Dan's just made of his glove. "Uh. Jeez."

"Seem on edge, Daniel," he says, watching Dan tuck himself in while he peels the leather off his hands. He drops them on the floor with little fanfare and only a slight grimace of distaste.

"Well, not so much now," Dan says, once his heart rate evens out. He moves so he's got both hands on Rorschach's shoulders, leans in to drop a kiss on his nose.

He sniffs indignantly. "You're welcome. Let me up."

Dan pushes him onto his back instead, dodges the knee to his groin like the pro he is. "It's your turn," he says, nuzzling at his throat. Rorschach surges up against his hands, all predictable aggression.

"Told you," he growls. "Don't need _that_."

"Yeah, you say that, but then you take a swing when I'm not expecting it. There's being _on edge_ , and then there's you."

Rorschach shifts uncomfortably.

"I'll keep my hands where you can see 'em," Dan tells him, the usual reassurance without the platitudes. Then, deadpan: "No funny business, I swear."

"Punk," Rorschach mutters, but relaxes against the mattress.

"You watch your mouth," Dan says mildly, and rubs at Rorschach's nipple through his undershirt. Rorschach makes an interesting—though not necessarily appreciative—noise, but doesn't attempt to KO him, so he does it again: a firm pass with the pad of his thumb.

And again, but this time with his mouth, sucking a damp patch into the fabric.

"What are you doing," Rorschach says, and the hoarseness of his voice might have something to do with the way he's craning his neck to stare at Dan, or it might not.

Dan just grins at him, says, "Is it okay?"

Rorschach's head falls back against the mattress with a muted thump, and Dan watches his throat work as he swallows. "Acceptable," he says, after a breath.

"How about this?" Dan slips his hands beneath the undershirt, smooths his palm over the hard planes of Rorschach's abdomen, runs his fingers over the rough trail of hair that bristles up his chest.

"Hrg," Rorschach says, which Dan will take as a yes, since it's followed by a remarkable display of complicity in which he allows Dan to tug the garment off over his head. He balls it up and throws it onto the floor with the gloves.

So now he has a partially-naked Rorschach, moderately prickly but mostly tolerant, stretched out on a bed and making no attempt to get away. What's a guy to do. Where's a guy to _start_.

"Don't you have soldering to do," Rorschach says.

"I've always got soldering to do," Dan replies. He braces one knee on the cot and leans in to kiss the ridge of Rorschach's collarbone, feather-soft. He feels Rorschach take a deep breath, then let it out. Fingers alight on the back of his head and burrow into his hair.

He trails his lips over the precise geometry of Rorschach's pectorals; not kissing exactly, not licking either, just lightly mouthing at his skin. Whenever he finds a hard ridge of scar tissue he presses his tongue to it, then moves on.

Rorschach has a lot of scars.

One of Rorschach's hands slides through Dan's hair and settles on the back of his neck. His breathing is strictly regimented, and he probably thinks that he's giving nothing away. Dan smiles against his chest and flicks his tongue against his nipple; if he doesn't get as much of a reaction as he would like, he chooses to take it as a challenge rather than a slight.

He slides downwards, leaves one hand flat against Rorschach's nipple; it's a hard pebble against his palm. His nose drags against the lay of Rorschach's stomach, and he feels the muscles fluttering beneath taut skin and inkspatter freckles. Another scar, another wide swipe of Dan's tongue. The fingers of Dan's other hand dance along Rorschach's flanks; the skin there is even paler than the rest of him and incongruously soft, yielding.

He isn't ticklish. Dammit. Dan's fantasies of Rorschach writhing under his hands are rudely trashed.

"Nice try," Rorschach says, and if Dan didn't know any better, he'd think the son of a bitch was smirking. Indignant, Dan jabs him in the ribs. He is rewarded with a sharp inhale and the sudden rise of Rorschach's chest, the strain of whipcord muscle over his shoulders, the tensed sinew of his neck. There's barely a skim of fat on him; he's all lean alley-dog, wiry, resilient.

"God, you look great," he says. He feels his cheeks heat at the envy in his voice, and because they just don't say that kind of thing to each other. It's not that kind of relationship. _He's just not that kinda guy_ , Dan thinks, and grins to himself.

For his part, Rorschach seems as surprised as Dan is. A slow flush trickles down his neck, fans across his chest. He mutters something about Dan's dubious predilections, which segues into some nonsense about his glasses being fogged up.

"No, uh." Dan wets his lips. "Really. You have an incredible body."

Rorschach snorts, but doesn't make any overtures toward escape.

"I like to touch you," Dan tells him, experimentally. He rubs his hand slowly back and forth over Rorschach's chest, up his neck. He's very warm to the touch, sweating. "I wish you would let me. You know. More."

"Perverted," Rorschach says, a verbal reflex that's starting to sound nothing more than conversational to Dan.

Dan laughs, leans in to fold the mask behind Rorschach's ear. "No, that's not perverted," he murmurs, and tries his teeth on Rorschach's earlobe. He pauses for a moment to savor the barest gasp from his partner (and to assess the probability of another Rorschach-and-sex–related injury), then takes the plunge. "You want to hear perverted?"

Rorschach shifts on the mattress. He would probably insist that he's just making himself more comfortable, but the way he arches his back and lets his legs fall open a little as he moves is entirely telling. And, more importantly, he isn't saying, 'shut your dirty mouth, Daniel'.

Dan takes a moment to imagine Rorschach actually saying that. His dick thanks him for it.

"I want to touch you, yeah," he says, mouth still at Rorschach's ear. He's glad Rorschach can't see his face like this. Not because turnabout is fair play, but because he can't remember feeling so simultaneously embarrassed and turned on, and he's sure there's nothing sexy about his beet-red, greedy expression. "I wanna find out what you like, what gets you hot."

"Thought you said that wasn't perverted."

"I'm just warming up."

Rorschach appears to give Dan's statement some superficial consideration, then lies outrageously. "Nothing gets me _hot_."

"I'm not sure that's the truth, buddy." Dan strokes his thumb down the inside of Rorschach's arm; his skin is soft there, too. So many soft spots for such a hard man. "I mean, doesn't it do something for you when you're, um, jerking me off? To have me in your hands like that, pain or pleasure, at your mercy?"

Rorschach shudders at his words, swallows with some difficulty.

"Don't you get off on getting me off?"

"No."

"Liar."

Rorschach whines, rough and short in the back of his throat. Dan is pretty sure he didn't mean to, which is like discovering a whole new continent of hot. Maybe he should call Rorschach on his flagrant bullshitting more often.

"I think you do," Dan says, emboldened. "You know what else I think?"

"No," Rorschach says, and Dan realizes that might be just enough plausible deniability for Rorschach to go along with this. Mostly in the way he didn't follow up with the obvious and anticipated: 'and I don't want to'.

"I think..." Dan pauses, catching his tongue. God damn this self-consciousness.

The ink of Rorschach's mask splits and fans, swirls into itself. "Daniel?" he says, an edge of impatience glinting. He turns his head like he wants to gauge Dan's expression. His mouth brushes Dan's ear.

God, what _does_ he think? He's not let himself ponder much about this not-quite-mutual not-always-gratifying arrangement they've gotten themselves into, what with it short-circuiting his brain if he dwells on it too long. He's still not sure if the cause is pure lust or sheer terror.

"Think too much," Rorschach says, one arm looping over Dan's shoulders and digging his fingers into the muscle there.

That's an explicit invitation if Dan's ever heard Rorschach offer one, and as their teeth clash, it occurs to Dan that this is the first time Rorschach has actively kissed him. On the mouth, that is. He tastes like stale coffee, not like sickly-sweet sugar and old blood as Dan expected. "Ow," he breathes as Rorschach drags his lower lip through sharp teeth. An eminently sensible and completely irritating part of him tries to recall the last time he had a tetanus booster. "I think you've been making me wait for this, huh?"

"That's what you think?" Rorschach says, between clipped breaths and another rough assault on Dan's mouth. "Not that perverted. Expected worse from you."

Dan snorts. "Oh, go to hell."

"On my way," Rorschach says. "See you there."

Dan's fairly sure he's only half joking. He tries to stall his partner's increasingly brutal interpretation of making out long enough to ask, "Worth it, though?"

Rorschach avoids the question by playing possum, dropping his death-grip on Dan's shoulders and spreading over the cot in a boneless loll. His head falls back, and he lets out a sigh that is as long as it is contrite. Maybe Dan is supposed to understand that he has misstepped—game over, time to go back to his soldering—but the sharp line of Rorschach's throat makes him stubborn.

Well, he thinks, and straddles his partner's stomach, slides his hand over his neck and up over his chin. May as well get there in style. Totally worth it.

Rorschach opens his mouth, and whatever question or condemnation he's about to give voice is muted as Dan slides two fingers onto his tongue. Dan braces himself for pain, but there's no sharp sting of teeth, only the undulation of Rorschach's tongue under his fingertips and of his body under Dan's weight, and a tiny, muffled groan.

"Damn," Dan whispers. Rorschach breathes heavily around Dan's fingers as he draws them out slowly, stroking at his lower lip and then sliding them back inside. "God damn, the things you to do to me."

A fist bunches in the side of Dan's shirt; Rorschach closes his mouth around Dan's fingers and sucks, hard. Dan jerks, thighs tensing, and suddenly he needs some pressure and friction and to explain in vivid, explicit detail just exactly what it is he wants Rorschach to do to him.

"I want you to fuck me," he says, which is close enough, if a little blunt.

Rorschach spits out his fingers, apparently so he can look suitably pole-axed.

"Yeah, god. So badly," Dan says, and grins down at him; he feels a touch manic. "I've been, uh, waiting? For you...?"

Rorschach grimaces, teeth gritting at the audacity of it all. "Enngh. I. What..." He trails off, and Dan decides to save him the embarrassment of trying to articulate... well, anything right now.

"After patrol one night, yeah?" He leans in so they're pressed chest-to-chest, and he's talking close to Rorschach's ear. He can feel the thud of the man's heartbeat; the fist loosening and sliding tentatively under his shirt. "Maybe, we'd... um. It would start in Archie, or maybe in the Nest, I think. You'd probably be pissed at me for something, a close call, or maybe I just talked too much all evening."

A snort from Rorschach, and a minor shift of his hips that sends Dan a little crazy. Crazier. Whatever.

"So you'd be a little rough with me, pull my armor off without much care, right? And you wouldn't let me touch you. You're—you'd be in charge." Dan pauses for a moment, thinks about where he's going with this, which proves tricky as he can't quite believe he's even saying these things out loud, giving voice to this well-worn fantasy. "You'd push me down, over the, the workbench or the kitchen table, and—"

"No," Rorschach says, word gusting out on an explosive exhale.

Dan freezes, swears to himself. Of course, what is he thinking, talking like this, of _course_ it'll freak him out, idiot—

"No," Rorschach repeats, more measured but no less rough. "...here. Like this." His hand grasps Dan's hip, pulls him down against him and makes Dan splay his knees to accommodate, a visceral suggestion of how it would be.

"You've thought about it?" Dan says, once he gets the dizzying cocktail of relief, surprise and lust under control, and has kind of nearly managed to process the fact that his dick is pressed hard against the tight muscle of Rorschach's belly. "About being... together, like that?"

If Rorschach's silence at that wasn't enough, the solid red flush painting his lower face and neck is more than damning.

"Me on top, huh?" Dan grins, sits up, stretches his arms above his head. He knows his shirt is sticking to him, that it's riding up at the bottom, and he knows Rorschach is _looking_ at him. He's not a vain man but he does know he's in good shape; he rolls his shoulders, inhales, feels the muscles bunch and tighten. God, every part of him is humming. He can't even tell how hard he is any more. "Letting me do all the work? Or do you just want an eyeful."

Rorschach makes a noise; Dan can tell his teeth are clenched behind tight-pressed lips. He's no idea if it was affirmation or denial or smug amusement, but it's not important when Rorschach suddenly arches under him. His breath is coming in short bursts through his nose, like he's angry.

Dan knows he's not angry.

"Really? You'd just lie there while I, uh..." He leans further forward, mostly because Rorschach has grabbed at his shirt again, but also so he can get a little more pressure where he needs it. Caught between his thighs, Rorschach's body is spasming in hard waves and Dan hasn't even _touched_ him, not _there_ , Jesus. "While we... ah god, Rorschach."

Rorschach brings his shoulders off the cot, presses his forehead against Dan's, who curls an arm around him, holds him steady and close while he inhales and shudders and tries to pretend that he isn't coming.

"...fuck," Dan whispers. Rorschach moans under his breath at that, a true and honest sound, and then Dan is following, any thought shattered and spun away when he feels Rorschach's hand close over him through his pants, feels himself pulse under that firm grip.

He rolls off onto his side, tilts his hips into Rorschach's hand.

"Filthy," Rorschach mutters, but he keeps stroking anyway. "Should be ashamed of yourself."

"Oh, I am," Dan says, languid. He feels like he could purr. "Very ashamed. As ashamed as a... very ashamed thing. Mm."

"Sense you aren't entirely penitent." Rorschach squeezes hard, just when things are starting to get the wrong side of sensitive.

Dan yelps, doubles over. " _Ow_ ," he gasps, and dissolves into half-laughter, half coughing-fit. "You're a perfect asshole." He kicks out, narrowly misses Rorschach's ass as he slides off the cot and to his feet. It's hardly a loss, though, not when he has the satisfaction of watching Rorschach trying maintain some dignity despite the state his pants are in.

"Using your shower," he growls, and staggers off into the kitchen.

Dan lies where he is for a moment, the decides it would be pretty fun to join him. It is his shower, after all. And besides, it's about time he got to see a little more than nose-to-navel. He is feeling lighthearted and lightheaded, conscious that this is probably a dangerous idea but not intimidated enough to care; right now the potential of more groin trauma almost seems worth it.

He sheds his pants halfway out of Archie, his shirt halfway up the basement steps, stuffs the whole mess in the washer as he passes through the kitchen. He pads upstairs, buck naked and delighted.

Totally worth it.

###


End file.
